'The Faint Scent of Coffee' by Davena O' Neill

The door opens without a sound, for a moment I stand there, listening. But no radio plays in the kitchen; there is no television on in the sitting-room. I fight the urge to call out as I step into the hall. Like an intruder I move through the house, realising this is my first time being here without you.

In the kitchen, the remains of breakfast not cleared away, chairs shoved back in haste. From the floor I pick up your mug, cracked, bleeding drops of coffee on the tiles. About to throw it out, I stop and place it on the counter instead.

Your phone sits on the table, where you placed it just hours before. I put it in my bag, needing numbers to contact later. Reading glasses lie on the opened newspaper; I place them in their case on the windowsill.

Upstairs, I avoid looking at the bed, where I know your nightwear is folded neatly on the pillow. My hands begin to shake. I smell you in this room, like a presence closing in on me, so I turn, and run like a child afraid of ghosts.

Returning to the kitchen I grab my bag and your mug. The front door closes behind me with a sigh.

At my car, I look back towards your home. It seems faded, the windows and doors sunken in, as if the house itself knows you will not return. Placing your mug to my lips, cold and empty, only the faint scent of coffee remains.

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Davena O’ Neill is an Irish writer. She has been published in FlashBack Fiction, Spelk, EllipsisZine, The Cabinet of Heed, among others, and was chosen as one of Grindstone Literary Dirty Dozen 2019. Find on Twitter @o_davena